


The Weight of Us

by visiblemarket



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M, and general manipulative dickery, and power dynamics, dubcon due to identity issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mayor Madeleine has no reason to hate Inspector Javert, and so he doesn’t.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Allegro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegro/gifts).



> For the Valvert fic exchange, prompt _#0. (2012 movie verse.) So basically, some dubious consent between Madeleine and Javert, even to the bordering of non con. (Depending on how far the filler wants to take this.)However, the catch is this. Throughout the whole thing, Madeleine is being really soothing, really “kind” and supportive, but firmly, firmly insistent. He continues to do this until Javert is overwhelmed and weepy, and Madeleine remains hushy and comforting. Because Creepy!Comforting!Madeleine everyone. Rating can be anything, and the content doesn’t necessarily have to be sexual. Just Madeleine as a charitable and yet deeply manipulative coercer._

Monsieur Madeleine likes to think of himself as a patient man.

Charitable. Patient. Not unkind. 

But it is late in the afternoon, and Javert has a tendency to drone, and the temptation to sigh loudly in his presence and be shorter than courtesy would dictate in his dismissal is very strong. It's not personal. It truly isn't, for all that the man's face and stiff-shouldered stance bring out the uncharitable impulses in him like no one else.

He’s ashamed of it, in part: Javert is here at his request, is meticulous and precise in his duties, and has shown the mayor nothing but unwavering respect and deference.

The irony of that should be exhilarating even as it’s nerve-wracking, but he doesn’t think of it. Can’t afford to. And so the Inspector’s loyalty, to the office if not the man, has merely become a petty annoyance. 

He is glad to see him go, with his customary curt nod and quick bow. Madeleine nods in return, barely lifting his eyes from the paperwork he’s been pretending to read. He waits a few moments, long enough for Javert to have made it down the steps and through the factory, before rising. He can watch the man leave from his window, and has found strange satisfaction in that.

Before he can make it that far, however, he realizes that Javert has left his gloves behind, which is strange: it’s unlike the man to be forgetful although he is, at times, distracted.

The black leather is soft in his hands, and Madeleine considers his options. It isn’t likely to be a particularly cold night, and the Inspector will return to this office soon enough. There is no real reason to follow him out.

But he goes anyway, down the stairs and causing a minor commotion on the factory floor as he rushes through. Javert is halfway down the street by the time he makes it outside.

“Inspector!” he calls, and the man turns around; his look of confusion flickers to something else, sharp and unrecognizable, before it solidifies into polite inquiry. Madeleine waves the gloves, and Javert walks back to him, brisk and almost impatient.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” he says, holding out his hand.

“It’s no trouble.” Madeleine smiles at him as he presses the gloves into his palm. It seems polite, and Javert, apparently making an effort to be friendly, doesn’t frown and immediately avert his eyes.

“You are too kind,” he says, with apparent sincerity; his lips hint awkwardly at a smile, and his eyes are, for a moment, bright with private amusement. Madeleine, struck by a sudden curiosity as to how he’ll react, grasps his wrist.

It’s meant to be friendly, or would surely appear so to most people. Javert is not most people. He ducks his head again, mumbles a quick, apologetic farewell, and spins on his heel.

As hard as he has tried to hide it, Madeleine catches sight of his expression anyway: a glimmer of something he is inclined to call panic, and a faint, barely-visible blush across his cheeks.

*

It is after that that Madeleine begins to notice.

Javert, for all his apparent deference to the office, has a disarming propensity toward staring at the mayor when he thinks no one is looking.

Madeleine wonders what it is he sees: Javert’s not entirely expressionless but the subtle shifts of his mouth, the crinkling of his brow, are often too rare and minute to interpret. At times, his generally wary nature seems to crystalize into more pointed suspicion. It has begun to make Madeleine nervous, and when he is nervous, he becomes impolite.

"You have been in town for two months now, I believe."

Javert inclines his head, just enough to indicate a positive response. In another, it might border on insubordination, but in the Inspector it seems discomfort at most.

"And how have you found us?"

Javert's eyes, never eager to meet his, drop to the floor. 

"The town is very.” Madeleine can hear him swallow. “Stable, Monsieur."

“Stable, Inspector?” he can’t keep the laugh from his tone. “Stability implies stagnation.”

Javert looks up at him, mouth twitching strangely before it settles into its resting almost-frown. “I meant no offense.”

“None was taken,” he says, keeping his tone light, teasing. “And myself?"

Javert's features struggle to remain placid; the corners of his mouth dip nonetheless, obvious displeasure even he can't disguise. 

"I asked an honest question, inspector. If you've a criticism, I’m eager to hear it.”

"Monsieur is perhaps..." Javert's gaze flickers back up to him. His tongue wets his lips in as nervous a gesture as the man will seemingly allow himself. "A little lax. Too...generous. It encourages the...certain elements."

“I see,” he says, and pauses; lets the silence stretch, waits till Javert’s eyes flicker to him, almost beseechingly, before focusing on the wall behind him. He rises carefully, and walks to Javert’s side, where the man will be forced to turn to look at him. “And yourself?”

“Myself, Monseiur?” Javert turns his head, and Madeleine takes care to smile at him, appear as encouraging and courteous as possible. He takes another step closer. The Inspector watches him, seemingly dispassionate, but his body almost radiates tension.

“You are here to discourage those elements?”

“I…” Javert frowns to himself; looks away, shakes his head, then focuses on the mayor again. “I suppose. Yes.”

“You could almost say we were partners, then," says Madeleine, tone full of quiet warmth and easy camaraderie.

"You could. I suppose. Monsieur." Javert inclines his head again, gaze darting to the door. The mayor clasps a steady hand over his shoulder before he can start his farewell.

"Good man," he says, and Javert's shoulder, already up and tense in his grip, wrenches away.

Madeleine watches him leave; when Javert reaches the courtyard, he stops, glances around to his immediate surroundings and, seeing no one, covers his face with his hand. Madeleine can see his shoulders rise and fall in sharp, panting rhythm, before he steadies himself, and strides away.

*

Mayor Madeleine has no reason to hate Inspector Javert, and so he doesn’t.

He has no reason to feel anything but sympathy when the man arrives, late and soaking wet, breathing rough and shallow, as if he’s been exerting himself.

He has no reason to be cruel, and he isn’t; he offers Javert a seat while he waits for the mayor to finish, a seat which must be found and dragged before the desk while Madeleine watches him from behind it, then pretends to be absorbed in reviewing his inventory.

Javert sits, his ramrod straight posture all the stiffer from his obvious discomfort at sitting before a superior. But he will not disobey, and when the mayor rises he goes to stand.

"No, no," Madeleine waves him back down. "Your day must be long, Inspector. You've earned a rest."

Javert twitches, his whole body obviously itching to straighten and bow and leave, but he sits down again instead, with a dip of his head that seems entirely respectful.

Madeleine does not respond, merely walks around the desk to stand before him. He leans back, bracing himself till he is half sitting on the edge of the desk, legs slightly apart. Javert watches him with narrowed eyes.

"Monsieur?"

"You are well, Javert?" he says, voice even and concerned, as he lets his knee bump against the outside Javert's thigh. It’s brief; an accident perhaps, a friendly nudge at most, but they both know it’s neither.

Javert’s eyes go wide before he drops his gaze. "Well enough, Monsieur," he grits out.

He’d removed his gloves earlier; now they lie draped across his upper thigh. Madeleine imagines touching him there, wrapping his palm over the tensed muscle. Wonders if Javert would bolt from his touch or remain, as he is now, torn between duty and want and expectation.

It is then that he realizes something very strange: he _wants_ this. 

Before it had been mere curiosity, almost a game in seeing how he would react; at best, or worst, a hope of distracting the man from other realizations.

But as he looks at Javert, who stares up at him with eyes wide from perhaps fear and perhaps anticipation even as he sits at rammrod-straight attention, whose minute trembles have not gone noticed, whose solid body is taut to the point of snapping, he realizes precisely what it would mean. All that power, all that pride, broken not by strength but by softness. It does not seem that great a crime, to give Javert what he wants, what he so desperately needs. It seems no crime at all.

“It is late, Inspector,” he says, and for a moment, he thinks Javert is about to speak. But he doesn’t, and Madeleine rises and walks back around to his side of the desk. “We'll continue this in the morning.”

“Monsieur le Maire—“

“You are dismissed, Inspector,” he says, perhaps a bit too sharply. To temper it, he smiles. “Get some rest.”

Javert blinks at him, his mouth slightly agape before he shakes his head. Nods to himself as he stands, and then bows at the mayor, deep and unnecessary and, in his way, pointed. Before he can do any more, Javert has left the room.

He does not go to the window. He does not watch him leave.

*

Days pass, and the Inspector does not return.

He refuses to call him in. 

Javert must come to him willingly or not all, and Madeleine knows him, knows he will, knows a man like that would not pass up the opportunity to stare temptation in the face and then refuse it. 

But he is a man, a nervous man, uneasy behind his uniform, unused to affection but obviously desperate for it. 

And so he will come. Eventually, in his own time, and when his pride will allow.

*

It has been a week and the mayor has taken to walking in the afternoon. Clearing his thoughts, greeting those that approach him with real warmth, thinking of something other than his empty office and his obvious miscalculation. He has been a fool, he has risked all he has, the towns livelihood and that of its citizens, for what? The petty glee at discomforting Javert, the strange delight at fleeting glimmers of humanity within him.

He has been a fool, a cruel man, and giving money to those who stop him in the street is selfish, nothing more than a way to assuage his guilt, but it's the least he can do. 

The rough clatter of hoofs on cobble stones draws his focus: a column of officers trot by, with Javert bringing up the rear.

"Monsieur le Maire," Javert calls out, and Madeleine is shocked: the man is flushed, sweat thick on his brow. His hat is gone, and there is a bright light in his eyes. The corners of his lips turn up in obvious good humor. This is Javert satisfied, amused, alive. Unrecognizable to Mayor Madeleine, impossible to Jean Valjean. 

Madeleine waves, more to be friendly than anything else, and without expectation. Javert's horse slows to a stop beside him and he cannot say who among them is more surprised, himself, Javert, or the horse, which paces impatiently.

“I have news,” he says, abruptly, and Madeleine raises his eyebrows. "I can—I can come tonight. To speak with you. Monsieur."

His horse snorts and tosses its head. Madeleine pats it, stroking along the thick, dark neck, till his palm reaches the edge of the saddle. He is close enough, and Javert's eyes are clear and momentarily untroubled; he gives the man's knee a quick pat as well and then steps away. "Whenever you prefer, Inspector," he says, and tries not to feel smug.

*

Apparently, the Inspector prefers half past nine at night, at the door to the mayor's home, pacing the stoop impatiently. Or perhaps he does not prefer it, for the loose and exhilarated energy of before has been replaced by the usual brisk suspicion, and does not re-appear even as Madeleine ushers him into the sitting room and offers a drink, a chance to warm himself by the fire.

Javert refuses, of course, but he does sit without being asked, and then rises, walks to an opposite corner of the room, and returns. 

“We have made some arrests,” he says, to the wall behind Madeleine, and then he half turns, so his face is primarily in shadows. 

“I’ve heard.” And he has; it’s been around the town, some sort of raid on a pack of highway men that had been plaguing the town for months, and while the populace is not particularly fond of the Inspector there has always been a grudging respect for the man’s efforts, and now his reckless courage has inspired a certain degree of admiration. Madeleine suspects it will not last. “A very brave feat, they say.”

Javert makes a sound; it’s low and dark, a chuckle almost, as he ducks his head. He seems to want to say something, but quickly decides against it, and turns away. 

Madeleine approaches him slowly, quietly, and when the man is close enough to touch, he does: drops a hand to his shoulder, and pushes, just enough to turn him, just enough to be able to see his face. 

"You were injured." 

It's not a question, though Javert seems determined to take it as one. He shakes his head, even as Madeleine eyes the cut along his hairline, the split in his lip, the beginnings of a black eye. Blood has begun to creep down his forehead and yes, it likely looks worse than it is. Javert goes to wipe it away but the mayor is quicker, close enough to presses a clean handkerchief to the wound. 

Javert winces, slight but significant. Madeleine’s expression is concerned, solicitous as he sops up the blood. It leaves drying, rust-brown streaks against his skin. "What happened?" he says, almost at a whisper, in the hope that Javert will respond in kind. He does.

"One ran," he says. “I followed. It's not—it's of no consequence. He had the worst of it." The words have an edge to them, a glimmer of pride, but it's hidden deep beneath the softness of voice. Madeleine steps closer, ostensibly to hear him better. Javert takes an unconscious step back, but Madeleine follows. They are perhaps three steps from the wall but Javert does not seem to notice it. His brow furrows, and he glances toward the fire to avoid the mayor’s eyes. He winces again and draws his gaze back, and Madeleine leans closer. “Is it the light?” Javert doesn’t respond; he doesn’t expect him to, and smiles, curls his hand around the back of Javert’s neck. “Close your eyes.”

Javert looks at him, incredulous, obviously unwilling; Madeleine waits, benevolent smile still in place, and eventually, as the mayor knew he would, he obeys.

Madeleine waits a few seconds more anyway, lets him take a shaking, uneven breath, and let out a low “Monsieur—“ before he leans in. 

Javert’s mouth is open when their lips meet, but he is quick to close it. It stays closed as Madeleine slides a hand under his chin, tilts head up. Javert does not fight him, lets himself be guided, pressed back into the wall, and kissed again, but he remains entirely still in the process, his hands at his sides and his eyes closed tight. 

There is an irony to it, that in this, Javert will not pursue. It is perhaps entirely appropriate that he will not resist. 

“Inspector…” he whispers, so close that he can feel Javert’s warm, shallow breaths against his mouth. The man’s eyes jump open; he does not seem frightened, does not seem adverse, does not seem anything at all. He is expressionless as a stone, and Madeleine cannot bear to see it. 

He ducks his head, presses his lips to Javert’s neck. He can feel the hot, erratic pulse of Javert's blood beneath his skin, the rough prickle of Javert’s beard against his cheek. He slides a hand between Javert's legs, rests a steady palm against the firm flesh there. Javert makes a choked, almost sobbing sound as hips thrust toward him, once, but the rest of his body draws back, pressing itself tightly against the wall. 

Madeleine lifts his head, and looks down at him. “You came here,” he says, voice calm. "You want this."

Javert takes a quick, pained breath and avoids his eyes. "What does _that_ matter?" 

"It matters to me,” Valjean says.

Javert looks at him, blue eyes wide and cold, expression strangely calm, for all that the rest of him is taut. He says nothing more, remains very still as he’s approached again, as a light kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth. After a moment, he turns his head, and his lips part; his tongue is warm and apprehensive, but his hands grasps at the mayor’s sides and he trembles, before tensing again and letting out an almost angry puff of breath against his cheek. “All right,” he says, softly, as if to himself. “ _All right_ ,” louder, and Valjean takes it as close to an invitation as he is likely to receive. 

He leans into Javert again, presses him tightly between the wall and his solid form. It’s rougher than he means it to be, and his hand is all the more tender between Javert’s legs as a result. 

"There," he says, gentle as Javert shudders against him, and thrusts into his palm. "There, now." Javert's face is pressed against his shoulder; he shivers again, and Madeleine pulls him closer, slides an arm around his waist. Javert sighs, and squirms, and refuses to ask for anything more even as he pants, unsteady and wet, into the hollow of his throat. 

Madeleine slides his arm out from around him and braces it against the wall, is careful to keep murmuring softly as he unbuckles the man’s belt and slides his palm against his skin. Javert pushes up against him, impatient; desperate, if the sound he makes is anything to go on. Madeleine tries not to smile. 

After that, it does not take long till Javert muffles a rough, pained gasp against his shoulder and spills over Madeleine’s hand. 

“There, you see?” he says, breathless, though he is not sure why. The weight of Javert’s head against his shoulder disappears; the man falls back against the wall, and blinks at him. He isn’t frowning. His eyes are unfocused, but strangely bright. His tongue peeks out, runs swiftly over his lower lip. 

“Yes,” he says, a slight, tremulous smirk in his tone. “I see.”

Valjean wonders if he truly does.

*


End file.
